I always feel like I’m struggling to become someone else. Like I’m trying to find a new place, grab hold of a new life, a new personality. I guess it’s part of growing up, yet it’s also an attempt to reinvent myself. By becoming a different me, I could free myself of everything. I seriously believed I could escape myself-as long as I made the effort. But I always hit a dead end. No matter where I go, I still end up me. What’s missing never changes. The scenery may change, but I’m still the same old incomplete person. The same missing elements torture me with a hunger that I can never satisfy. I guess that lack itself is as close as I’ll come to defining myself. ―Haruki Murakami
“Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they’ve been given than to explore the power they have to change it.
Impossible is not a fact. It’s an opinion.
Impossible is not a declaration. It’s a dare.
Impossible is potential.
Impossible is temporary.
Impossible is nothing.”
– Muhammad Ali
I have been sitting on my little balcony all this evening.
Not even thinking that much really.
I love the swishy sound the cars make.
the light reflected in the street below.
Listening to the rain and the distant thunder.
Soaking it up like the birds and the trees.
Nothing else had moved except,
distant music playing by the neighbor.
Time forgot to move.
Whenever it is raining I wish I was under the rain walking down the street.
No more Insanity!